


Witchcraft is Nothing But Such Drudgery

by billowingbastardsnek (sloanesaysno)



Category: Circe - Madeline Miller, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Hogwarts Professors, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Other Ships Not Mentioned in Tags, Slight Canon Divergence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-08-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:55:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 18,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25649155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sloanesaysno/pseuds/billowingbastardsnek
Summary: New professors always create a hubbub at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Often, they're old professionals filling in old posts. Less often, you have young professionals filling in still old posts. And even less often, you have young professionals fresh from their three years of worldly experience teaching an entirely new subject thatcouldmaybe be dangerous. Just maybe.AKA Albus Dumbledore takes a gamble that could end up backfiringhorribly.
Relationships: Bill Weasley & Original Female Character(s), Charlie Weasley & Original Female Character(s), Circe (Circe) & Original Character(s), Original male character(s) & Original female character(s), Severus Snape/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	1. 1991

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer! None of this is mine save for my characters, their dialogue, and non-canon compliant information.

_Perhaps,_ Delia thinks, _I shouldn't have applied for Hogwarts? I should've just gone back to Greece. God forbid I--_ Her train of thought is cut short when the Great Hall's great doors swing open, and multitudes of students swarm in, as organized as they can be.

Delia notes that these are the older ones, who arrived by carriage. She makes a note to see those carriages one day, now that she's a teacher.

They hurry to their seats, but there is much milling and chatting about, and when Dumbledore rises from his seat, requests their order, and kindly asks them to lower their voices, the students obey and she draws in a shallow breath as she steels her nerves.

Delia glances at the rest of the table from the corners of her eyes. She looks at Professor Trelawney, who gives her a somewhat vague nod of encouragement, and then she turns to Professor Flitwick, who also gives her an encouraging look, albeit a definitely cheerier one.

Next to her is Professor Burbage and Sprout, who are silently watching the students come in. Neither of them seems up to a conversation, so Delia leaves them be and lets her eyes wander.D

Professor McGonagall is ensuring that the sorting hat makes it to the Great Hall when she comes back from the Entrance Hall where the first-years are waiting. And then, she hurries back to them.

Her gaze falls on the Ravenclaw table, where she once sat, only three years ago. Also during the start of the year, and also casually chatting with her friends and housemates.

Delia locks eyes with a familiar-looking girl. And it hits her-- a current seventh year, a girl she had assisted outside the portrait when the girl could not answer the riddle out of exhaustion.

Delia tries to recall her name. Was it... _Eliza? Eliza Harold? Probably._ Unconsciously, her fingers press against the cold bronze of her left hand.

She allows her eyes to scan the crowd again. Some more students are staring up at the high table and she can feel their eyes roving and finally settling on her. Of course, they recognize her! Just because she pulled up her hair and is wearing a far more formal robe doesn't mean that she'll be unrecognizable!

Delia resists the urge to drop her head in her hands and let out a loud groan. Instead, she rubs her bronze finger nervously. She really didn't think this application through.

With a glance, Delia looks at the new Head boy and Head Girl, a handsome, blond Hufflepuff with a look of mild irritation on his face, and a dashingly pretty brunette Slytherin who appears to be teasing her peer. She smiles and recalls her co-Head, Bill Weasley. He was the easy-going one between the two of them.

With a hurried, almost nervous glance, Delia looks at Professor Snape. They make eye contact, and his face flickers with a sneer of annoyance and rather disconcerted look. Delia frowns and looks away. She reminds herself that he can't take points from her, and that there's no point in being intimidated by him. And furthermore, she was his student long enough for him to be used to her eyes-- well, really? After all that time?

But, no matter! The large, oak doors swing open and Delia grins when she sees the little, awe-struck first-years ambling their way through the wide aisle.

"Will you wait along here, please? Now, before we begin, Professor Dumbledore would like to say a few words," Professor McGonagall says.

Professor Dumbledore rises from his seat and Professor McGonagall takes hers-- and Delia is waiting with a somewhat melancholic smile on her face.

"I have a few start of term notices I wish to announce. First, I am pleased to welcome our _three_ new Professors. Professor Burbage, who has taken up the post of Muggle Studies, Professor Quirrell, who has filled in the Defense Against the Dark Arts post, and Professor Adrakis, who has agreed to take up the post of Magical Theory.

"Additionally, the first years please note that the dark forest is strictly forbidden to all students. And finally, our caretaker, Mr. Filch, has asked me to remind you that the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side is out of bounds to everyone who does not wish to die a most painful death. Thank you."

Delia winces at that, but she directs her attention back to Professor McGonagall and pays attention. It is her favorite part of the day-- here comes the Sorting, the Song, and the Feast.

She eyes the old hat on the stool and tries to recall the musty, leathery smell. She cannot remember it. It has been too long ago.

And then, it bursts into song.

_"Oh, you may not think I'm pretty,_

_But don't judge on what you see,_

_I'll eat myself if you can find_

_A smarter hat than me._

_You can keep your bowlers black,_

_Your top hats sleek and tall,_

_For I'm the Hogwarts Sorting Hat_

_And I can cap them all._

_There's nothing hidden in your head_

_The Sorting Hat can't see,_

_So try me on and I will tell you_

_Where you ought to be._

_You might belong in Gryffindor_

_Where dwell the brave at heart,_

_Their daring, nerve, and chivalry_

_Set Gryffindors apart;_

_You might belong in Hufflepuff,_

_Where they are just and loyal,_

_Those patient Hufflepuffs are true_

_And unafraid of toil;_

_Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw_

_if you've a ready mind,_

_Where those of wit and learning,_

_Will always find their kind;"_

A smile flashes on Delia's lips.

_"Or perhaps in Slytherin_

_You'll make your real friends,_

_Those cunning folks use any means_

_To achieve their ends._

_So put me on! Don't be afraid!_

_And don't get in a flap!_

_You're in safe hands (though I have none)_

_For I'm a Thinking Cap!"_

The hall bursts into applause. Delia claps, and now, her eyes eagerly scan the first-years faces for ones she can recognize. Yes, she recognizes the two, dark-skinned girls standing next to each other. The Patil twins, of course. And the rather tall, red-haired boy who looked quite familiar-- Ron, Bill's brother.

Her gaze sweeps over the students, and her eyes land on a very tan, almost brown, scrawny boy with wild, black hair and gleaming shamrock green eyes. It's not his eyes that stop her, though-- it's his pale scar, running across his face, all jagged and deep and almost intimidating.

Delia pulls her eyes away from Harry Potter's face and continues studying the small crowd of students.

The slim, almost white-haired boy looking aloof and rather arrogant must be the Malfoy scion. Delia doesn't know much _that_ about them, especially after choosing to religiously avoid people known to have been connected to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, but she recalls that they're purebloods, quite influential, and positively swimming in money and power.

"When I call your name, you will come forth, I shall place the sorting hat on your head, and you will be sorted into your houses." Professor McGonagall's voice cuts through her thoughts, and Delia relaxes in her seat as she watches the first student get sorted.

"Abbott, Hannah."

A small, blonde girl in pigtails goes up to the stool, and after a brief half-minute of deliberation, the Hat shouts,

"HUFFLEPUFF!"

"Bones, Susan."

"HUFFLEPUFF!"

And the sorting carries on. For the most part, Delia smiles and claps quietly. She lets her mind drift, and she thinks of her first lesson tomorrow. Tomorrow morning, Monday, September the second, her first period students will be the fifth year Ravenclaws, and simultaneously, a group of third-year Slytherins.

Delia cracks her knuckles and glances down at her Time-Turner. It looks like a gaudy class ring, all bronze and carved, the Greek alphabet decorating the fiddly twist holding the minuscule hourglass in its place. The contents of the hourglass appeared to be black sand to most people, but Delia knows exactly what it is.

 _Moly_. The rare herb with a place in myth and legend. Odysseus himself was told to use it to ward off the goddess Circe's magic, but that was in the Bronze Age when Gods walked on earth and magic belonged to immortal and demigod witches.

Regular, non-magical Moly is not very difficult to find. _Silly witches and wizards thinking that those weak lily leeks hold magic_ . The true, Titan-blood Moly holds immense power, so much more than any magical creature's hide or hair-- and it is nearly extinct. But, fortunately for Delia, she knows exactly where to get some. She doesn't need to, of course. She already has a store of moly, carefully grown and kept under the _stasis_ charm.

The miniature hourglass on her ring is filled with crushed Moly, so fine it's dust. But the magic in it, ancient and eternal would not fade for-- well, it wouldn't fade for a very long time!

"RAVENCLAW!"

Delia looks up from her hands with a quick jolt and smiles sheepishly at Professor Sprout, who glances at her with surprise. "Sorry," Delia mutters. "I got a little lost in thought."

"No problem, my dear. But I suppose it would be better if you did pay attention. The first Ravenclaw was just sorted!"

Delia smiles and looks at the boy, small and dark-haired, heading for the Ravenclaw table. And the next pupil gets called up--

"Brocklehurst, Mandy."

After a minute of deliberation, the Hat lifts itself from the blonde girl's head, and shouts, "RAVENCLAW!" The table claps proudly, and Delia grins at the warm reception the girl receives.

"Brown, Lavender."

"GRYFFINDOR!"

"Bulstrode, Millicent."

"SLYTHERIN!"

"Corner, Michael."

"RAVENCLAW!"

"Cornfoot, Stephen."

"RAVENCLAW!"

Later, after several other students, a Miss Hermione Granger is called. Delia smiles, recognizing the name. It's Helen's daughter's name-- sweet Hermione, who, as Delia's Aunt Penelope had put it, screamed for half a decade but grew up to be as sweet as anything.

The hat sits on Miss Granger's head quietly. The clock ticks and the glances between Professor McGonagall and Professor Dumbledore prove her right-- it's strange that the hat is taking a long time.

Delia glances at her watch. It's been more than a minute, nearly two. The hall, previously quiet with anticipation, is now buzzing with excitement.

_Another Hatstall? What's a Hatstall? It only happens every fifty years! My grandmum told me Professor McGonagall was one!_

Delia glances at her watch. Three minutes. Miss Granger is still sitting in her seat, and the hat, once unmoving, jerks suddenly. A gasp ripples through the students, but the professors only look amused and rather interested.

Another minute ticks by, and then--

"GRYFFINDOR!"

Delia claps. She glances at her watch again. Four and a half minutes. Well, not a hatstall, but certainly close enough.

Delia doesn't tune out this time, but she allows her gaze to stray again, clapping every now and then for each student. She makes eye contact with Percy Weasley, Bill's younger brother, a Gryffindor Prefect. She offers him a slight smile-- they've met before, once, when Bill invited her for dinner over Christmas. Percy Weasley smiles back, albeit far more awkwardly, and he hurriedly turns his gaze away.

"Longbottom, Neville."

Delia's breath catches in barely concealed shock. Frank and Alice Longbottom's son. A sick wave of pity rises in her throat as she looks at the boy. He's not very tall, but he has a sweet, round face and a somewhat nervous look on his face. It's horrid, seeing the child of someone tortured to insanity right in front of you.

Mr. Longbottom approaches the hat with evident trepidation. He takes his seat, and then... silence. It seems to be another possible Hatstall.

Delia sits in silence, surveying the muttering students. She glances at her watch. Almost four minutes! Impressive, this group of students. She wonders what this generation will be best known for-- each one had their shine of glory.

"GRYFFINDOR!"

The Gryffindor table claps loudly, beckoning Mr. Longbottom to his table. Delia catches a glimpse of his face-- he looks surprised and a bit terrified.

"Malfoy, Draco."

The blond, arrogant looking boy steps forward. He has a surprisingly nice face but the confident look in his eyes is somewhat unnerving. Professor McGonagall sets the hat on his head and in the split second when a strand of his hair touches the brim of the hat, it shouts, "SLYTHERIN!"

And then Mr. Malfoy struts off to his table, reveling in the cheering of his housemates.

"Malone, Roger!"

"HUFFLEPUFF!"

Delia drums her fingers against the table. With a metallic clatter, her bronze fingers accidentally bump the cutlery. She drops her left hand to her lap, grimacing. She feels eyes boring into the side of her head and she turns to give the person glaring at her a glower.

Her eyes lock with very dark and irritated ones. She refrains from scowling at Professor Snape. Instead, she raises her chin and airily turns her head away.

"Potter, Harry."

Delia's hands close, fisting her long robes tightly. It's not that she's displeased to see him, but that it's a startling and almost solemn moment. Only one person was not surprised to hear what he survived and that person is immortal.

Mr. Potter nervously approaches the Sorting Hat. It sits on his head and it wobbles a bit, as if it was laughing. After several more moments, the hat yells out, "GRYFFINDOR!"

The applause is tumultuous. Gryffindor cheers, hoots, and claps for Mr. Potter as he approaches their table.

The rest of the sorting drifts by, and finally, the feast begins. Delia had intended to eat only a little bit, but she told herself that it was the Start-of-Term Feast and that it would be a while before they had another one.

The first day of classes had been a little nerve-wracking.

Thankfully, she didn't wake up hungry-- she would've lost sleep. To counter that, she woke up somewhat late. Delia had dressed in a smart pair of cigarette pants and a black turtleneck, certainly warm enough for early autumn, but she decided to take her plaid blazer with her. She puts on her glossy oxfords and collects her things.

Delia places her fountain pen and ink in her bag, along with her journal, some parchment, and a shrunken copy of _Magical Theory_ by Adalbert Waffling for her third years, _A Look into The Magical Cultures of the World_ by Bathilda Bagshot for her fourth years, and _The Science of Magic: Genetics_ by Persephone Willow for her fourth years.

Her office and quarters are on the fourth floor, annoyingly far from the Great Hall. Delia exits her office and then hurries down the steps. She passes by several students, nodding at them as they all head for the Great Hall.

She takes the staff's entrance to the Great Hall and takes a seat, dropping her bag next to her seat and getting ready to eat. She drops some bacon and eggs into her plate and grabs a piece of toast. She pours herself a cup of chamomile tea to settle her nerves.

"Cordelia! Good morning. You have... a bag with you?" Professor Sinistra says, curiously eyeing her bag. In Delia's haste, she had failed to acknowledge or even notice the woman sitting next to her.

"Good morning, Aurora," Delia greets amiably, taking a bite out of her toast. "Yes, I'm afraid my first classes are in two classrooms rather far from my office."

"Ah, then I suppose you do have to carry a bag around. What classes are you teaching first?"

"I'll be teaching some third-year Slytherins and some fifth-year Ravenclaws," Delia says, cutting into her bacon and eggs. "I have some help with me-- Professor Dumbledore had encouraged it due to the demand." She waggles her right hand's fingers, showing Aurora the time-turner.

"I must say, that seems far more convenient than having to teach my classes from ten PM to two AM. I come here for breakfast, I come up with homework, and then I sleep," Aurora says, smiling wryly.

"I have always been more of a night owl," Delia says thoughtfully, and she hurries eating.

"I know, I recall it very well." Aurora smiles, a teasing edge to her voice.

Delia laughs and finishes the last of her food. She downs the coffee and says, "I must get going-- my first class is on the first floor and I must panic by myself for a minute or two. I will see you around, then?"

"Oh, Cordelia, you'll be wonderful. Have a nice day!"

Delia picks up her back and hightails it out of the hall, striding past the Slytherin and Ravenclaw table back to the Entrance Hall. Delia notices that the corridors are quite empty and she takes advantage of it by running to the staircases. She takes two steps at a time and reaches her classroom, slightly winded, in roughly four minutes.

"See what three years without quidditch practice does to you," she mutters, and then she pushes the door of Class 3D open.

She heads for the teacher's table and drops her things on it. She would be teaching third-year Slytherins in this classroom, and in the classroom adjoining her office, fifth-year Ravenclaws.

She wonders what her students will be like-- she's never met any of them before, unlike some fourth-years who some might recognize her as their Head Girl in their first-year.

It's roughly five minutes to her first class. Delia sits on the edge of her table and pulls her journal from her bag. She flips through the first few pages and gets her class list of third-year Slytherins.

_Acton, Bellamy_

_Lourdes, Valeria_

_Montague, Graham_

_Bale, Marius  
_

_Sprocket, Harleen_

_Stone, Chelsea_

_Warrington, Cassius_

_Whitmer, Maximillian_

It is a small class compared to her others.

The door creaks open and Delia glances up to see three boys chatting as they walk in, followed by a surprisingly sullen-looking black-haired boy, two girls, and a trio of another two girls and a blond boy.

They look at Delia, but they don't stop talking. They take their seats and Delia stands up, carefully watching them. Though they try to hide it, they're staring straight at her, making eye contact.

The first three boys, all strongly built and evidently athletic, look almost thuggish. She doesn't mind them very much-- at worst, they're horribly disruptive. At best, they're actually interested in the class.

The sullen looking boy doesn't look like he wants to be taking Magical Theory. She's not sure what to think of him.

The pair of girls, currently pulling out their materials, seem to be good friends. One, a brunette, and the other, a redhead. Both of them seem quite excited to be back in school.

And the trio is chatting in hushed whispers, glancing up to look at Delia while they pull out their quills and ink and parchment. Their heads are bowed as if conferring about something secret, but it seems like it's about _her._ One of them makes eye contact with her, and then hurriedly looks away.

"Good morning, everyone!" Delia greets, and she nods at the murmurs of " _Good morning, professor."_

"I would start with a roll call, but since there's only eight of us, I'd like it if you stood up and introduced yourself instead. Your given name, nickname, if you'd like, and an interesting fact about you."

The students look at each other with something akin to amusement.

"I'll start," Delia says, smiling awkwardly. "I am Professor Cordelia Adrakis. I do have a nickname, but I doubt any of you would need to call me by it. Your head of house was also my Potions Master."

The students look at each other again, now with something along the lines of slight intrigue. One of the three boys stands up, a black-haired boy with short hair.

"Well, my name's Adrian-- Adrian Pucey. I don't think Adrian's long enough to get me a nickname, so that. Er, I'm chaser on the Slytherin Quidditch team."

Delia huffs out a laugh at that. Adrian elbows the boy next to him-- the boy, thick-set and also dark-haired stands and says, "I'm Graham Montague. Some friends call me Grey if they're being lazy. I play chaser, too."

"I'm Cassius Warrington. No nickname. Er... um..." the next boy trails off, the corner of his mouth quirking up in consternation as he thinks of something interesting to say. Graham snickers and Cassius shoots him a dirty look. "I like snakes?"

Delia's brows knit together. "Interesting. I suppose it is fitting, you being in Slytherin, then? Who's next?"

"I'm Harleen Sprocket," the girl with red hair announces, standing up. "People call me Nina. I'm good at wizarding chess."

"My name is Bellamy Acton," the girl next to Nina says, getting up to nod at everyone. "Some people call me Belle. My father is an American."

"How interesting! Is he a wizard?" Delia asks, forgetting to catch herself.

Bellamy looks somewhat scandalized at the insinuation. "Of course he is! He's a pureblood. So is my mother, and so am I."

"I see," Delia nods, and she looks away from Bellamy's narrowed, brilliantly blue eyes. Her gaze falls on the quiet, glum-faced boy. "And what about you, Mister...?"

The boy glances up at her, surprised. He stands up and says, "My name is Marius Bale. I don't have a nickname. Uh, I once met Nicholas Flamel? The famous alchemist?"

Delia smiles at that. Marius, clearly uncomfortable, sits back down. A dark-skinned but fair-haired girl gets up to speak.

"I'm Valeria Lourdes. My friends call me Val because Valeria is a mouthful. I have a pet niffler, but it's better at stealing my mum's jewelry than finding useful gold."

Delia and the class laugh, and then, the girl next to her, shockingly pale but rosy-cheeked and red-lipped, gets up and says, "My name is Chelsea Stone. I don't have a nickname, it's just Chelsea. I'm good at... well, I'm pretty damn good at gobstones, if I do say so myself."

The girls laugh and the boys snicker.

Finally, the last boy stands and speaks. "I'm Maximillian Whitmer. Like Val, my name's a bit of a mouthful. Everyone calls me Max. I have a sort of tattoo from when my sister scratched me with her quill. Here, see?" He shows his forearm and a streak of faded black runs along his arm.

"Very interesting, Max. Well, everyone, please settle down. I'll be discussing our class rules, what Magical Theory is all about, and what you'll be learning from this year until year seven, should you stick around with me."

Next to Delia, the chalk begins writing on the blackboard.

_Prof. Adrakis_

_Magical Theory: Year Three_

_Elective class_

Later, the same thing happens with the fifth-year Ravenclaws. Some students had recognized her, most notably Penelope Clearwater, a clever prefect. There was a touch of suspicion and her students had asked where their previous professor, Professor Chester Wigg, had gone, she had simply said that he resigned and it was a _never you mind_ beyond that.

Her first classes had come and go, and eventually, so did the days, weeks, and then months.

The first, truly strange and remarkable experience she has at Hogwarts is on October 31st, during the Hallowe'en Feast, when Professor Quirrell runs into the Great Hall, screaming, "TROLL IN THE DUNGEON! TROLL IN THE DUNGEON!"

He then frantically gesticulates towards the doors he just passed through. He stops dead in the middle of the hall between the Ravenclaw and Gryffindor tables.

Delia rises from her seat with a clatter, her mind furiously working yet still uncomprehending. _A bloody troll in the dungeons? How the hell did it--_

With a sidewards glance, she sees that most of the other teachers have done the same.

Delia stares at Professor Quirrell, who has a faintly glassy look in his eyes.

"Thought you ought to know," he continues, sounding very calm. Then, he faints, dropping bonelessly to the floor.

The hall is shocked into silence, but when a clap of thunder and a flash of lightning rumbles through the Great Hall, the students seem to be screaming with one, enormous mouth.

Professor Dumbledore's voice booms through the hall, one, drawn-out word bellowed.

"SILENCE!" The hall falls silent and a few hundred faces stare at him. "Everyone will, _please,_ not panic. Now, Prefects will lead their houses back to the dormitories. Head Boy and Girl will ensure that the halls are empty-- and please see to Professor Quirrell. Junior Professors, please see to it that the castle is secure. Senior Professors and Hagrid will follow me to the dungeons."

Delia faintly hears the Prefects instructing their panicking charges, the Head Boy and Girl yelling at everyone to get a move on, and teachers dropping their utensils with a clatter as they hurry off follow Professor Dumbledore.

Delia had been sitting next to Aurora, who was, in turn, sitting next to the Headmaster. She jogs to keep up with his quick strides and she's shoulder to shoulder with Minerva and, all of a sudden, Professor Snape.

Delia notices his arrival but decides to ask him about it later. He's limping, though. It's very strange but, again, she chooses to focus on finding the bloody troll first.

Half-way through the corridor, Professor Quirrell appears and Professor Dumbledore stops. "I must see to the object. Quirinus, please join the other professors. Filius, Hagrid, Pomona, would you please accompany me?"

The four of them depart and Delia and the others continue all the way to the dungeons.

It didn't take too long for them to reach the exact place where the troll was gallivanting around-- the yells, shrieks, and wild crashing directed them well enough.

They run towards the place-- a girls' toilet-- and, upon noticing the sudden, ground-shaking thud and the silence, they run faster. Minerva pushes the door open with an uncharacteristic touch of panic, Professor Snape, Quirrell, and Delia pushing in behind her.

Minerva gasps, Professor Snape inhales sharply, Delia lets out a low cry of shock, and, unbeknownst to her, Professor Quirrell grimaces.

"Oh! Oh, my goodness! E-Explain yourselves, both of you!" Minerva says, trying to steady her voice.

Mr. Weasley and Mr. Potter look at each other, then back at Minerva. "Well, what it is..." they start but trail off uncomfortably. Mr. Potter opens his mouth to speak, but the bushy-haired girl cuts in, her voice steady.

"It's my fault, Professor McGonagall."

"Miss Granger?" Minerva asks, sounding aghast at the girl's words.

"I went looking for the troll. I'd read about them and thought I could handle it. But I was wrong. If Harry and Ron hadn't come and found me...I'd probably be dead."

Delia resists the urge to place her fingers on her temple and groan. _Bloody little Gryffindors_. She admires the girl's bravery, but the stupidity of it... Delia had heard about Miss Hermione Granger, a very bright young witch. It was quite strange.

"Be that as it may, it was an extremely foolish thing to do."

Delia glances at Professor Snape. He looks irritable and he shifts his weight onto his left side. She makes eye contact with Harry Potter, who hurriedly looks away.

"I would have expected more rational behavior on your part, Miss Granger. Five points will be taken from Gryffindor for your serious lack of judgment."

Delia heaves a low sigh. She eyes the troll with trepidation as if expecting it to wake up at any moment and club them with its horrendous weapon.

"As for you two gentlemen, I just hope you realize how fortunate you are. Not many students could take on a fully grown mountain troll and live to tell the tale. Five points will be awarded to each of you," Minerva pauses, frowning at the boys' identical grins. "For sheer dumb luck."

"Well, Professor Quirrell, do your magic, then? Good luck," Delia says, bidding the nervous-looking man good-bye as she hurries after Minerva and Professor Snape, eager to leave.

She sees his nervous nod of assent.

"Miss Granger is not as... perfect as she seems, hm, Minerva?" Professor Snape says, his head turned to Minerva. "Well, she _is_ a Gryffindor..."

"I've had it with your sass, Severus. However, I really did not expect it from her!" Minerva huffs out, her voice sharp with disbelief. "I'm going to see Dumbledore. Goodnight, Severus, Cordelia."

She leaves them, taking a different corridor and climbing several staircases before disappearing.

"You're still bleeding, Professor," Delia says bluntly, breaking the stiff silence as they walk next to each other. She glances at him out of the corner of her eye.

"I am fine," he replies, his tone short.

"Professor, you're trailing blood on the floor."

"Thank you for the enlightening comment, Professor Adrakis."

Delia rolls her eyes and says, "I can stop the bleeding. That would keep Mr. Filch from throwing a fit and you from, er, losing more blood."

His dark eyes snap to her. "I can handle _blood_ by myself just fine, thank you. Nor do I need to go to the hospital wing, as I assume you might suggest."

"Well, I'm sorry for showing an ounce of concern for my bleeding coworker," Delia replies promptly. "I hope you heal your leg well-- you wouldn't be able to make any more of your dramatic entrances then! It is quite efficient, then, _speed-walking_ to make your robes billow behind you like a cape?"

They had stopped at a staircase that Delia was supposed to climb to get to her room. And Professor Snape looked almost dumbstruck and greatly annoyed, still registering what she had said.

"Anyway, have a good night, Professor. I'll see you around!" With her best, most flattering smile, Delia flies off, climbing the stairs quickly and disappearing from sight before Professor Snape could comment.

Delia had been particularly proud of that few moments of banter. A childish goal to become seen as irksome yet stupefying by the man, the myth, the _legend_ , Severus Snape, fulfilled!

She had passed by him in the hall several times, nodding and smiling cheekily, much to the shock and confusion of the students surrounding them. He, of course, had _not_ smiled back, but he nodded in acknowledgment.

However, much to her disappointment, she did not get a chance to have an actual conversation with him until the Christmas Feast.

She had been busy trying to wrangle her fifth-years and seventh-years into _not_ panicking and studying in the nicest way possible-- however, she found that being a hypocrite seemed to reduce her authority over their studying habits.

However, in all honesty, she found that her fifth-year students should have found her subject quite easy-- all the homework she had assigned were relevant to their O.W.L.s. and dare she say, quite _enjoyable._

It was all research, in the meantime. They had begun their Latin and Greek lessons, but it was all the utmost basics! They already knew a fair amount of Latin because it is the language of magic in Britain, but translating all that to Greek couldn't have been extraordinarily, mind-numbingly difficult!

Why, she assigns two essays and a list of translations a week. Certainly not as stressful as Potions, Astronomy, or Transfiguration!

"Really, Oliver, I wish you'd scribble a little less and... write some more?" Delia sighs, looking up from her table to a wincing Oliver Wood. She slides a flattened yet still wrinkly sheet of parchment towards him.

"But, Professor, it's homework, isn't it?" he says, a pleading look on his face as he hovers in front of her desk. "Look, Professor, it's Quidditch season and I still have to train our new Seeker-- I don't have time to redo my essays!"

"Oliver," she says sternly, fixing a reproachful look on him. Delia sees the tragic look on his face and heaves a sigh, her face softening. "I will let you off for the last time, alright? I do not want to see this chicken scratch again and I will dock points if I see it one more time. Please manage your time, will you?"

Oliver's face pales and a somewhat upset look flashes across it. He doesn't say anything but he nods jerkily.

"Okay. Thank you. Er, who's next?"

"I am, Professor," Percy Weasley's face appears as Oliver slumps off, his wrinkled paper in hand. Percy stands over her table, quietly waiting for her to find his paper.

Delia flicks through the stack of parchment and, from the corner of her eye, she can see her other students quietly doing homework or chatting.

"Well, Percy, I think your essay was quite well-written. Very few, if any, grammatical errors, and you have good points that were explained properly," she says, smiling as she hands him his paper. A curt, close-lipped smile crosses Percy's face. "However, I must say that the verbiage was a little too, well, _over the top_. I must remind you that the ability to simplify a difficult topic is the mark of intelligence, not the other way around."

Percy's smile drops.

"No, I don't mean to say that you wrote a silly essay!" she reminds him, tilting her head at his slackened, almost hurt face. "I mean to say that you don't need to use long, complicated words like _abnegation_ or, ah, _pellucid_ . It gets a bit _abstruse_ at that point, I think."

She gives him a wan smile and he departs from her table, muttering under his breath.

"Next!"

"Professor, what'dya say to Percy? He looked a bit pale and now he's a bit green. Did you jinx him with a rainbow or something?" Andrea Sabrinoe says, bouncing over to Delia's desk with a spring in her step.

"Never you mind that, Andrea. Ask him if you really want to know. Anyway, your essay..."

Her Gryffindor fifth-years were quite good students, very amusing and casual but still maintained a good deal of respect. Of course, it probably stemmed from the fact that she was their Head Girl three years ago, but she certainly did not take it for granted.

One of the many privileges of a Hogwarts Professor would be to sit in the higher boxes and enjoy a better, relatively safer view of the Quidditch matches. Delia, much to her unfortunately impish delight, found that she would be seated near Professor Snape. It was all by chance, of course, but amusing all the same.

She watches the match avidly, her eyes on the Slytherin and Gryffindor beaters with sharp interest. The Slytherin beaters were more thuggish than clever, and more often than not, their hard swings hit Bludgers that merely missed. A particularly lucky shot had hit a Gryffindor chaser.

On the other hand, the Gryffindor beaters, Bill's younger brothers Fred and George (and her rather mischievous students), were quite spectacular, working as a pair to bounce the Bludger back and forth until it knocked into Adrian Pucey.

"Oh, heavens. That'll hurt," she mutters under her breath, watching Adrian spin for a couple of seconds.

But by then, Gryffindor had scored. Delia claps loudly, smiling. She wasn't particularly fond of either team, leaning more towards Ravenclaw's team as she had been their beater for three, glorious years, but she didn't mind either team as her friends from her years at Hogwarts had played for Slytherin and Gryffindor, too.

But at some point, Adrian had recaptured the Quaffle and swerved out of the way of two bludgers and Delia had to control herself-- cheering and not being a head of House would be a very partisan move that wouldn't go unnoticed by her students, for better or for worse.

"Oh!" Delia gasps, involuntarily standing from her seat to watch. She hurriedly takes her seat again, apologizing to the wizard behind her.

Harry Potter and Terence Higgs had both dived for the Golden Snitch! Oh, she could see Terence lagging behind-- Harry Potter's Nimbus 2000 is too fast for Terence's broom.

She felt a wave of pity for Terence-- he was still quite affable towards her even if she had bluntly told him his spellwork was shoddy and that she would give him extra lessons, and it was his last year to win.

But Marcus Flint, a particularly unlikable Slytherin fifth-year that she had passed by in the corridors but had never taught had shoved Harry Potter and earned Slytherin a foul.

Gryffindor's chaser gets a go and scores, getting themselves a twenty to zero.

The game gets a little dull from there until Harry Potter starts swerving on his broom, as wild as an American cowboy in a rodeo. Delia squints, puzzled.

_What the bleeding hell is that boy doing?_

It carries on, getting worse, but the rest of the audience doesn't seem to notice. Adrian scores and Delia claps absently, still squinting at Harry Potter.

"Excuse me, but are you seeing Harry Potter wiggling around on his broom like a worm?" Delia says, tapping the shoulder of the witch in front of her. "A bit strange, isn't it?"

Harry Potter is now dangling off his broom!

The witch looks back at her, a bit shocked at the question, but when the woman turns back, she exclaims, "Why, you're right! What is happening to that boy?"

Fred and George attempt to get Harry Potter on one of their brooms, but the boy lurches forward and they miss. Delia notices Marcus Flint score several times, but the crowd seems preoccupied with Harry Potter's wobbling.

It happens for a few more seconds, and then--

"Fire!" A voice cries out. "You're on fire!" A wizard, the one next to Professor Snape in the row below jumps to his feet and staggers back.

Delia looks down and sees the smoke and glowing, brilliantly blue flames. She leaps to her feet and pulls out her wand. "Oh, your coat is all aflame!" she says, sighing as Professor Snape frantically gets to his feet and stamps out the fire.

"An interesting observation!" he grits out, his arm jostling Professor Quirrell and making him fall off his seat.

"Clever of me, I know," Delia says, rolling her eyes. With a flick of her wand, water spurts from its tip and she directs it towards the growing flames. She grins at Professor Snape's indignant look-- the bottom half of his robes are soaking wet. She wiggles her wand this time, giving it a complicated little swirl, and hot air gusts from its tip to dry his robes.

Professor Snape only gives her a haughty look and returns to his seat without looking at her.

"Oh, thank you for keeping me from going up in flames and then drying my robes, Professor Adrakis! No problem, Professor Snape. It was my honor," she mutters under her breath, a mock-cheerful tone to her words. She sees him stiffen and knows that he heard her loud and clear.

Eventually, Harry Potter caught the Golden Snitch. Oh, not to say that he took an awfully long time to get it, no, but the match ended with Harry Potter swallowing the Golden Snitch.

The other matches were not as interesting as the first between Gryffindor and Slytherin, but on every occasion that Ravenclaw played, Delia wore her scarf and charmed it to blow in the breeze every now and then, often flying into the face of the unlucky witch or wizard seated next to her.

Christmas rolls around with bright, brilliantly white snow and wickedly sharp icicles dripping along the entrances of the castle. Though it is a festive event that Delia enjoys celebrating, she could not help but feel wearier and wearier even amidst gleeful students and sparkling decorations.

It had happened a week before Christmas day. Delia had been doing one of her evening rounds, patrolling parts of the castle at night to ensure that any wayward students found out of their beds were sent back.

A door left ajar had stood out to her at the end of the corridor and she went to check inside. However, instead of finding loitering students, a large, gleaming mirror stood in the corner of the room, and piled up chairs were in the other.

Delia had approached it, unaware of the mirror's nature. She had studied it for several moments, taking in the engraving above the glass, when she caught sight of her strange reflection.

It was her-- but not her. It was a different Delia, one who had her long, cool brown hair haphazardly braided back instead of the typical ponytail chignon, a Delia wearing a Doric chiton instead of the typical witches' robes.

But, strangely enough, it was a Delia holding hands with someone just hiding off to the side, out of view. The person's hand was pale, certainly not as sunkissed as hers, but it was the least of her worries. This Delia looked joyful, absolutely happy to be where she stood, and it left the real Delia's chest heaving with fury, doing her best not to shatter the mirror and set it aflame.

What kind of ridiculous mirror was this?

Delia's eyes had snapped back to the engraving. She reads words inscribed in the strange language-- _Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi._ She narrowed her eyes and read the words backward.

"I show not your face but your heart's desire," she mutters under her breath, unconsciously leaning closer to the mirror. Her eyes go back down and connect with reflection Delia's joyous face.

She glares at it. "Bold of you to assume I have a heart," she said savagely, and it that moment, it seemed more like a hasty shield, a show of weakness than a harsh retort. But it didn't matter much-- it could not reply and Delia had loathed it with every fiber of her body.

A silly dream, one to mock her for the rest of her life.

"Cordelia, would you kindly pass me a cracker? I'm afraid I've emptied this part of the table," a squeaky voice asks, the sound coming from just below her shoulder. She blinks, her mind blank.

With a startled jolt, Delia glances down and looks at the speaker. "Oh, I'm sorry, Professor Flitwick, I spaced out a bit, I'm afraid," she sighs and then passes him a handful of Christmas crackers.

"Cordelia, I have told you that you ought to call me Filius. You've earned it, after all."

"Oh, but Professor, you do realize that every now and then I'll put myself into a _real state_ and you'll have to pull out that tin of cupcakes again."

"I do wonder how you managed to get yourself into Ravenclaw when you seem to have the wiles of a Slytherin. Severus would find your opportunism amusing," Filius says, his voice taking on a somewhat teasing tone.

Delia smiles slyly. "Wit beyond measure is man's greatest treasure. I've been told I have a rather facetious way of speaking."

"Oh, all your former teachers would be very much aware of that," Filius replies. And then, the two of them look along with the rest of the table and see a very amusing, if not strange sight.

Hagrid had been drinking mulled wine to no end, and next to him, Minerva sat, incredibly tipsy and tittering about some sort of joke Professor Sprout-- Pomona, had told her.

Hagrid kisses Minerva's cheek and she finally bursts into giggles, her hat becoming more and more lopsided.

Delia laughs along, savoring the cheer and Christmas spirit. But with a quick glance, she looks at Professor Snape and realizes that he looks still sour and inappropriately dressed.

Delia's not sitting too far from him. Filius sits to her right and Aurora to her left, who is engaged in conversation with Professor Kettleburn, Silvanus who teaches Care of Magical Creatures.

"I wouldn't mind switchin' seats, Cordelia!"

"Oh, that's not necessary," Delia says hurriedly, her cheeks reddening under the stare of Severus Snape and the amused looks on Aurora and Silvanus.

"Come now, Cordelia. It'll be fine, heaven forbid we keep you from engagin' Severus in the Christmas spirit!" Silvanus says, beaming. He gets up before Delia can refuse, but he pauses to pull his prosthetic leg loose from the table.

Delia gets up, an embarrassed flush creeping across her face. However, she maintains her smile and switches seats with Silvanus. Upon sitting down, she notes with interest that a joint in the hand of his wooden arm had left grooves in the wood, discernible through the tablecloth.

"Was that... necessary?" Professor Snape says to her quietly, his voice a low drawl of annoyance.

"No, didn't I say it wasn't?" Delia says, tilting her head to look at him properly. They sit next to each other now, and it seems that Professor Snape is slowly pushing his chair away from hers. "Sorry. Sir."

"Your respect for professors is admirable, Adrakis," he says, his voice taking on a tinge of sarcasm.

"Yes, it's a good facade to hide my devilishly sardonic wit behind," she retorts, but there's no trace of irritation in her voice. Instead, she seems to be gleefully engaging with him.

"Wit? Was there any?"

"Filius tells me I should've been placed in Slytherin," Delia says, electing to ignore his snark. She smiles at the look of vague distaste on his face. "Oh, don't be so mean. I know it's not fitting."

"Your sharp tongue does not befit the Slytherin house, if you must know."

"Traditionalism?" Delia says, widening her eyes and cocking her head to the side as a slow grin makes it way across her lips. "Really, Professor Snape, you musn't call the kettle black if _you_ are too!"

His mouth twitches with irritation.

"Alright, alright, I'm joking and I'll stop. Would you mind me asking some... perhaps, Potions-related questions?"

"Yes."

"I thought you liked Potions."

"I appreciate the subtle art of Potions, but I do not enjoy the idea of being... _pestered_ while I am on Christmas break."

Delia looks at him askance. "You don't dress like it's Christmas," she says before she can stop herself. His dark eyes land on her sharply and she suddenly regrets saying it out loud.

"Neither do you, Adrakis. I don't recall Prussian Blue being a color associated with Christmas."

Her smile returns. "It contrasts out my eyes. They work well enough as Christmas decor."

"Indeed."

Amusingly enough, Delia falls into surprisingly easy conversation with him, though frequently punctuated by sardonic banter. They had discussed various students, with her praising some of her Slytherin students and he acknowledged the existence of the Ravenclaw house. Oh, he did know it existed, but it seemed that he directs far too much of his ire towards Gryffindor to truly notice the other two houses.

Five days after the Christmas Feast, Delia sits in the kitchen, stirring a cup of tea and firewhisky. It is nearly midnight and she is about to celebrate her birthday with some alcohol and a plate of cinnamon rolls a house elf had almost desperately handed to her upon learning that it was her birthday. She pores over a book, leather-bound and rather thick, a gift her friend had mailed the day before.

It's cold in the kitchens and her one of her night slippers has fallen off-- her bare foot dangles, red with the chill. Her sweater is warm though, and her sweatpants, though unprofessionally baggy, are wonderfully comfortable.

She cuts a slice of the cinnamon roll and pops it into her mouth and she continues to read in the weak candlelight. She could easily go back up to her chambers and relax there, but the quiet kitchen, smelling of herbs and food with a cold breeze, from an enchanted window, drifting in reminds her of a place she could easily call home.

Delia savors the sweet vanilla glaze and the heavy pastry in her mouth as she turns a page, and then--

"Who's there?"

Delia gasps, but the chunk of the roll is already in her throat and a wheeze comes from her mouth instead of a yelp. She slams her fist on her chest, annoyance with a touch of panic crawling up her spine. She still can't breathe-- the cinnamon roll, lodged in her throat, is choking her.

_Oh god, oh god, I can't die choking on a cinnamon roll, that's the most pathetic thing I could possibly die from, noooo--_

Her hands clutch at her throat and she makes a squeaking sound-- _fuck!_ The person behind her is quickly approaching, their wand light brightly illuminating the table.

"Adrakis--"

It's Professor Snape. His eyes, dark and surprisingly wide with shock, scan Delia. He's trying to figure out what to do, clearly not aware of the existence of the _fucking Heimlich Maneuver_. She's getting dizzy and his somewhat panicked expression is not helping--

Delia runs her left hand's pointer and middle finger along the side of her neck, the cold bronze of her middle finger making her wince with discomfort. The cinnamon roll transfigures into a raisin and her windpipe is cleared.

Delia gasps for air and coughs. And then, she glares at him.

"Thank you, Professor Snape, for startling me into choking and then watching me run out of air. Did you enjoy the performance?" she asks, her voice somewhat breathy but clearly irritated.

"I did _not_ make you choke!"

"Ah, but your sudden voice startled me into choking!"

Professor Snape glares at her. Delia glares back. He's the one who eventually breaks eye contact, his gaze straying to her book and the small tealight on the counter.

"You'll render yourself blind," he says sourly, lowering his wand-- and its light goes out-- to transfigure the small candle into a bigger one.

"No, I won't," Delia says, feeling a bit stubborn and still annoyed. Before he manages to transfigure the candle, she puts it out with a pinch of her fingers. She can still see his face clearly, though it's not as bright with the candle from earlier. "If you've managed to look somewhat unsettled whenever we make eye contact, then I believe you've noticed the color-- well, _brightness_ of my eyes."

She glances at the half-empty plate, the china opaquely reflecting her lambent, golden eyes.

"Or, you haven't and I just have a naturally intimidating disposition."

Professor Snape huffs at that, a sound between a laugh and a scoff. "What are you doing here? Don't you have the comfort of your chambers?"

Delia shrugs. "Reminds me of a very nice place. Would you care to join me for some midnight tea?"

His eyes, dark and extraordinarily judging, study her for a brief moment. And then, he nods. He pulls a chair from the counter and takes a seat. Delia glances at him over her shoulder and drums her fingers against the stone counter in a rhythmic fashion.

The last sound her fingers make is the chink of bronze against the stone and the candles near the counter ignite.

Delia gets up to make a cup of tea, and says, "Isn't the patrol over? What kind are you fond of? How many sugars?"

"Yes, but I came to check in case of any... wandering students. I enjoy Candyleaf tea. One sugar, no milk."

Delia smirks as she pours the still-hot water into a teacup, and then she summons the tea leaves. She drops them into the water and looks for the sugar. "I did not take you as the sweet tea type."

She places one sugar cube in his tea and stirs it, then brings it over to him.

He narrows his eyes at her. "I did not take you for the kind that startles and chokes easily, Adrakis."

"Shall I pour you some Ogden's Rare? It's been aged sixty years and I just opened it," she offers, tilting her head towards the bottle of firewhisky. Then, a smirk appears on her face. "Or I could summon my bottle of Pinnock's Gigglewater. My cousin said it's good for a laugh."

Out of the corner of her eye, she studies him. He is not wearing his usual billowing robes (how strange it would be if he did!), but something strangely familiar... _is he wearing a matched pajama set?_

"I can only imagine," Professor Snape says, his voice dry. But he pushes his cup of tea towards her and she takes it as a sign to pour some firewhisky. "I would hazard a guess-- you've tried it?"

"Incorrect. Five points from Slytherin for assuming someone such as I would try something as juvenile as Gigglewater," Delia says, making a rather spot-on impression of him. "But I do enjoy a nice flute of champagne."

Professor Snape looks like he's refraining from rolling his eyes and is struggling to do so, but he says, a smirk faintly showing on his lips, "If I were you, I would've taken fifty points."

"Of course you would," she says, smiling as she cuts herself a slice of the cinnamon roll. "Oh, would you like some? They're absolutely lovely and certainly the best way to celebrate New Year's Eve, among other annual occasions."

"Am I in danger of choking?"

"Only if you get startled and not assisted by a wandering professor," Delia assures him, looking entirely earnest. "Don't worry, though, I'm well-versed in the Heimlich Maneuver."

"I don't see a spare fork," he says, the excuse sounding unbearably lame as he says it.

Delia taps her fingers on the stone counter again, this time in a different rhythm. A fork appears out of thin air and places itself in front of Professor Snape, resting on the edge of the china plate and gleaming under the candlelight.

He takes the fork and cuts into the cinnamon roll. She watches him take a somewhat hesitant bite and then shrug, almost dismissively. High praise, indeed.

"What are you reading?" he asks, inclining his head towards her abandoned book.

"It's Dante Alighieri's Inferno. _Before me, things were none, save things eternal, and eternal I endure. All hope abandon ye who enter here_ ," she quotes, tapping the book absentmindedly. "A gift."

He merely nods in response. The silence is infuriatingly awkward and Delia resists the urge to leave-- he's being very dull and she can't stand it. She will try and make conversation-- if it fails, then it fails.

Delia looks at her watch and then says, "Oh, it's ten minutes to midnight. I'll return to my chambers and watch a few movies and then sleep off the rest of tomorrow. As they say, the first day of the new year is how the rest will go! What will you be doing later?"

"Sleep, perhaps? It is the _sensible_ thing to do. What do you mean, _watch a few movies_? I would've thought you'd figure out that hash of magical theory."

Delia looks offended at the statement and says, sounding irked at his words, "Of course I have. It's all perfectly charmed, my projector. What makes you think I wouldn't be able to figure it out?"

He gives her a reproachful look but Delia doesn't back down. Before she has the chance to speak, he replies without missing a beat.

"You must be sillier than I thought if you couldn't catch onto a sarcastic comment, Adrakis. It would be extraordinarily disappointing if someone unable to charm a muggle object and have it work perfectly was hired at Hogwarts."

Delia stares at him. She's somewhat stunned at this revelation. Professor Snape continues, but a sly, smug, coprophagous grin spreads across his face, taking Delia aback.

"But, is that not _illegal_?"

Her cheeks color with something akin to mortification and discomfort. "I- well... it's..." she stammers out, her brain rapidly working. She tries to recall the specifics of the law, but the loophole limited muggle made objects--

Delia looks back into Professor Snape's dark, somewhat derisive eyes. Her eyes, contrasting with his in its incandescence, seem a little bit duller.

"You've got me," she sighs dejectedly. She raises her wrists and says, "Cuff me in, Officer. I'm turning myself in."

It is a silly joke, but she doesn't expect him to crack up at _that._ Professor Snape is _laughing_ because (or at?) of _her._ The strangeness of the moment stuns her into a few moments of silence.

And then, she joins him, trying to suppress the ridiculous-sounding giggles. Even after he's stopped laughing, she did not. Something about the situation is extraordinarily absurd and she could not stop in the middle of it.

Her laughter finally dying down, Delia realizes that Professor Snape has affixed a curious look on her face.

"Did you spike my drink, Professor?" She asks, looking over at it. She grows strangely uncomfortable under his unmoving gaze. "I wouldn't be very surprised if you did, I'd be more amused, don't worry."

"No, I did not," he finally says, glancing down at his teacup. He drains it and stands, towering over her. "It is getting late. You will miss your films."

Delia glances at her watch.

"Oh, you're right," she murmurs, her voice hitching with something akin to disappointment. But, strangely enough, also relief. "Well, thank you for your company, Professor Snape. Have a lovely New Year's Eve."

He nods at her curtly. "Goodnight, Professor Adrakis."

And he walks away, back down the length of the corridor and he disappears around a bend. Delia stares after him, puzzled.

With slight difficulty, she turns away from where she had seen him walking and back to her plate of nearly finished cinnamon rolls, Ogden's Rare Firewhisky, and pair of teacups. She drains her drink and vanishes it, along with the cinnamon rolls.

Delia shrinks the bottle of firewhisky and her book, pocketing them as she gets ready to leave. With a tap of her fingers, the candles go out. Delia takes the same path Professor Snape took and hurries back to her chambers, glancing at her watch.

Her window has an excellent view of Hogsmeade, and if the skies are clear, she will be able to see fireworks from extremely distant muggle cities.

But as she climbs the last few steps, her mind is entirely somewhere else.

_Extremely strange... wandering students... one sugar, no milk... fifty points..._

With a jolt, Delia realizes she's walked past her office. She heads back towards it, still extremely preoccupied. "Illegal!" she scoffs under her breath. Delia glances at her door and awaits the riddle. Professor Dumbledore had asked her what kind of lock she wanted on her office and she had decided on a riddling portrait, something quite similar to the Ravenclaw common room's own sort of password.

"The ancient giant from the east was slain by man and by beast-- and laid to rest upon his pyre to feed a ravenous desire. He'd swallowed a woman whole, then feeling hungry still, he tried to swallow a horse and thus he died."

She raises a brow at the girl painted directly on the door. "Did Professor Dumbledore put you up to this?"

The girl stares back at her, a somewhat haughty expression in her misty blue eyes. "No," she says, raising her chin, "I am useful enough to think of riddles by myself."

"I didn't mean that," Delia says, rolling her eyes. The girl must've heard her swearing in Greek through the door. "Troy."

The door swings open and Delia hurries through, closing the door behind her. She heads for her bedchambers, but she stops to look at her desk. She hasn't opened all the letters yet and there is a new package there. She gathers the letters and the wrapped box in her arms.

The door swings easily under her bronze touch, and Delia hastens to place them down on her nightstand. She empties her pockets and returns the book and firewhisky to their original size.

Delia stares at it for a couple of moments, then she abandons it on the coffee table, leaving them next to other gifts and baubles, and sits by her window. She opens it, letting the chilling cold in, flecks of snow flying through the window.

" _Diavmenos tochos,_ " she murmurs, and though the cold still rushes in, no snow passes over the window sill. Delia looks at her watch. "One minute to midnight."

She rests there, but her mind wanders, replaying her brief but extraordinarily strange encounter with Professor Snape.

She turns to look at her coffee table and she stares at the tall bottle of alcohol next to the squat decanter of firewhisky.

_"I would hazard a guess-- you've tried it?"_

_"Incorrect. Five points from Slytherin for assuming someone such as I would try something as juvenile..."_

Delia's not staring at the bottle anymore, but something thousands of leagues away. Her mind is scattered and blank. "Gigglewater," she murmurs under her breath.

A loud bang echoes through the silence, as quick and shocking as a gunshot. Delia looks up with a jolt, and her gaze falls on the shooting fireworks, exploding and whizzing and banging into the empty night air.

"Welcome to 1992," she says, smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Diavmenos tochos' is a chopped up and very much mangled portmanteau of three Greek words that probably mean 'none shall cross this threshold'. I'm sorry, I don't speak Greek or know anyone who does :((
> 
> Edit: I've removed Icarus Pendragon from the list of the Slytherin third-years because I figured that I might put his very interesting name to good use. You'll see him soon, don't worry.


	2. January 1, 1992

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer! None of this is mine save for my characters, their dialogue, and non-canon compliant information.

The sun is beaming through the snowy, icicled window, slanted rays of light crossing the room and softening it, making it seem more like a fae cottage, a dream-like haze. 

Delia stretches in her pristine, white bed and wraps herself tighter with the duvet. It's wonderfully cold, her cheeks and ears slightly pink with the chill but her bare feet warm under the sun.

Her eyes lazily read the letter in front of her face and she rolls to her side, a low sigh of contentment falling from her lips.

_Dear Delia,_

_Merry Christmas, happy birthday, and happy New Year's to you. I hope you're doing well-- if you're not, you're always welcome to hole up in my flat here in NYC. How'd you stand being stuck in those lonely Scottish hills?_

_It's been a while since my last letter to you so I will update you about everything that's happened. I do wish you'd charm a Nokia 6050 D2. Didn't I write to you about it? I expected a call, tsk tsk._

_Anyway, I've been meaning to tell you that Nicole's already started at Ilvermony. She got into Wampus! Bragging rights, I suppose. I wonder what sort of shenanigans she'll get into..._

_She's too much like you, I think. ~~Stay away from sister, you heathen!~~_

_Mom wants to visit you and then take a quick trip to Aunt C's because Grandfather's on his deathbed. I won't pretend to feel bad and, frankly, neither should you. You know what he's like, but trust me, he's gotten worse._

_Milligan's marrying a nomaj and Grandfather threw a right tantrum! I'm surprised he didn't die from rage-- it would've been a newsworthy death if his head imploded._

_Will you come home this summer or wallow in rainy ass Britain? If you're coming home, come back with us once we get back from Aunt C's! Write back to me or I'm sending a howler._

_Mwah,_

_Daria Helstrom-Havemeyer_

_P.S. Did you like the giggle water? You can drink it and I won't feel guilty anymore-- I don't care if you're British, my alcohol's from the States and we live by those rules. Yaay, you're legal 2.0!_

_P.P.S. Expect a letter from Nicole. She's scribbling away after I told her I was busy writing a letter to you._

Delia smiles at the letter fondly, reading and rereading her cousin's slanted, cursive scrawl and the signature stamped name. Her Aunt Agnes is one of her favorite aunts, a very kind and warm woman with a soft heart. Sometimes, she wonders what her aunt deserved to have her mother for a sister.

At the same time, she's not surprised that Daria's sister, Nicole, had gotten the mean gene of the Helstrom family, a Swedish wizarding family renowned for their prominent Aurors.

Grandfather William is dying of cancer-- something even magic can't save. She feels a touch of guilt at the sudden spike of relief when she thinks of attending his funeral. The family would be better off with one less pureblood supremacist.

Milligan, Delia's cousin, though not by blood, is someone she's particularly fond of. He is a bit higher up the Havemeyer family tree being the child of Catherine Carmichael, a member of yet another prominent American pureblood family. It surprises her that he's engaged to a muggle, but she's very pleased for him nonetheless.

A rush of nostalgia washes over her like the waves on Aeaea's white-sand shores. She wishes she could visit Aunt Circe, but she's got research over the summer... _I'll visit soon, it's not like I have an infinite supply of Moly._

She raises a brow at the part about the phone. Well! She does have one, she just doesn't see the need to use it. Of course it works, she's the one who's charmed it. 

Delia puts away the letter and reaches for the next letter on her stack of envelopes. 

This one is sealed with wax and a pressed flower, and Delia can smell the sweet, lavender perfume of the paper. It's from her mother. She runs a finger over the pink seal and it loosens.   
  
Delia removes the seal and fumbles with the nightstand drawer's handle, then she places it inside for safekeeping. Returning her attention to the envelope, she pulls out the letter and begins to read her mother's fine script.

_Dear Cordelia,_

_Happy birthday, my daughter. I wish you a happy New Year's day and a merry Christmas. I hope my gift sees you well-- I do hope you'll like it. It has cost me a pretty penny buying you that._

_How was your Christmas? Ours has been quite well even without you-- I certainly mean for you to read between the lines. I know you are weary of my questions, but I must know when you will leave Hogwarts and come home._

_I do not care if you return to Greece, even that's better than you being trapped inside that castle! I don't mean to say that your teaching position isn't admirable, but Cordelia, you can find excellent jobs with even better pay closer to Sweden!_

_Not that you need the pay, of course. Child, if you forget, you have thousands upon thousands of galleons in your vaults-- is it truly necessary you still work?_

_Please do not take my words with offense, my dear. If you do, then I can do nothing about it. I only ask that you reconsider your somewhat impractical ventures in Britain. I have your Aunt Circe to thank for that._

_I have other news, such as Milligan's upcoming marriage (date unresolved), your grandfather William's worsening illness, and your father's determination to visit you._

_Milligan is marrying a muggle woman, a very clever girl named Isolte, her namesake being the founder of Ilvermony. Is it a coincidence? I do wonder if she descended from Martha Steward II, though. An interesting twist, would it not? A muggle descendant of Gormlaith Gaunt and of Hogwarts' Salazar Slytherin marrying our sweet little Milligan? I must be going mad-- these conspiracy theories are a bit out of hand, aren't they?_

_You must come to the wedding! Do take a leave of absence and tell your superior it's urgent. If you must, tell him your grandfather's dead and his will is to be read._

_Speaking of your grandfather, he is dying. I will not say much aside from that there is nothing we can do and it will certainly happen soon. Do not miss the funeral. A black-wax letter will tell you of his death and the seal is the portkey. _

_Finally, your father is absolutely dying to visit you. He will be taking a portkey from Stockholm to Athens, and then to London. I believe he arranged it with the British Minister for Magic. I don't entirely approve of your occupation as a teacher at Hogwarts but I can commend your sensibility to not work for the British Minister._

_Your father says he's a jolly good man, but you must know by now that your father's a bit too nice at times. A little generous, I think._

_I shan't be coming because I have a crisis to avert and flowers to grow, but I shall see you in the summer._

_Your father will not be sending you a letter because I think it's a waste of time. He will be seeing you later in London, don't be late! He is still packing, but he is telling (commanding!) me to inform you that he loves you very much and that you should not get drunk too early in the day._

_He's aware of your mildly alcoholic tendencies, then!_

_Write back to me, then, my dear._

_Love,_

_Mother_   
_Majken Helstrom-Adrakis_

Delia rolls her eyes fondly at her mother's wild conspiracy theories and smirks at her comment on the Minister for Magic. 

In truth, she finds her mother's letter a little bit sad. It's been a while since she last saw her and even longer since she's last been to Sweden. It's been less than a year since she's been to Greece but it's been nearly three since she's seen even Stockholm.

She realizes she can't sleep in too late. She should inform Dumbledore of her departure later and perhaps, absence tomorrow. She'll put it off for later-- she has, what? Six more hours to spend rolling around in bed and eating her first breakfast of 1992?

"That sounds about right," Delia drawls out to the air, her voice slow with laziness.

However, she gets up to lean against her headboard and she lets the fluffy comforter fall to her waist. Delia picks up the next letter, also sealed with wax. This has a different family crest from her own, a swirling loop across a shield and a gothic capital B shining a pale, periwinkle blue under the sun's rays.

"Oh, Al," she says, chuckling as she removes the seal and carefully places it on her nightstand. "Ever the dramatic."

She opens the envelope and pulls out the letter, smiling at the sharp handwriting.

_Dear Cor,_

_Happy birthday, merry Christmas, and have a great New Year's Day. Thank you for the wonderful idea to seal all my letters to you blue-- Mum has attempted a revelio but the moly has protected it quite well. Now, she continues to pester me about my babe-- er, lover, and I no longer have to attend her weekly matchmaking dinners._

_I have much to tell you about what's happened over the last six months, but I'm afraid my letter will be intercepted. This is more than you think it is. We need to see each other and I need to tell you about something. I can't floo for obvious reasons, but you'll see me soon. The next Hogsmeade visit will be exciting, won't it? Especially now that you'll be able to go a bit out of bounds?_

_Also,_

_I've been corresponding with Bill for a bit of a chat. Also because I'm too busy to travel to bloody Egypt, but he's oh so wonderful enough to send me a couple of pieces of some sarcophagi and a couple of cursed antiques. I think they're fake, but you'll verify for me or else._

_All of us should get together sometime, it'll be pretty nice._

_I've been talking to some of our old schoolmates, including Nymphadora Tonks who is still studying there in her... seventh year, I believe? I've come to the conclusion that Charlie Weasley would be a good connection-- I know I'm making him sound like a commodity, but hear me out! He works with dragons in Romania, last I heard. If he works with extremely dangerous creatures that are often kept under key and lock, then I do think he would have a fair bit of influence, don't you think? Well, just because he's Bill's brother didn't mean I had to be his best friend. It's strange seeing your friends close with your siblings-- you wouldn't happen to know about that, would you?_

_I'll talk to you soon._

_Yours,_   
_Alistair Blackpave_

_P.S. Dad wants to know if you liked the Disney box set, says he's willing to loan you his Batman comics in exchange for a certain book... you know the one he's talking about._

Delia had smiled for the most of the letter, but the strangely ominous bit about Al wanting to meet with her without being monitored by magical authorities had been a little odd, if not unusual. Yes, she will meet with him without qualms as long as it doesn't interfere with her teaching, but it is strange.

Why would Alistair want to meet with her without the Ministry of Magic knowing his whereabouts? But more importantly, why wouldn't he tell her what he needed to say? Delia supposes that the information would be dangerous in the wrong hands.

She puts the thought to rest. She and Bill haven't corresponded in a while, his last letter being the one from midsummer, writing to her about his prefect brother and dragon-rearing brother. She should write to Alistair, Bill, Daria, and then her mother later.

She had laughed at that part where Al implied that Charlie would have solid connections in the Romanian Ministry of Magic. Very kind of him to think of dear Charlie so highly. Well, Charlie is quite well-known, but it's only been several months. Being two years younger than Bill, Alistair, and her, he's only starting his career.

His note about Nymphadora Tonks is entirely true-- she is still studying and in fact, graduating. It didn't surprise her that he's been corresponding with Tonks as they had all been good friends when she, Al, and Bill were still at Hogwarts, even though Tonks is two years younger and three behind when they had been at school.

The postscript message had been extraordinarily amusing-- Al's father, Mr. Blackpave, is a muggle and a bit obsessed with books and comics and shows and whatnot muggle amusements. Delia shares that slight obsession with him and he gladly lends her films, books, and comics in exchange for rare first edition books she owns.

She sets aside Alistair's letter and picks up the next envelope-- this one has no seal, and it is a little crumpled and warped, clearly windswept. This letter must be from Bill.

_Cor,_

_Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, and Happy Birthday! How've you been doing? I sent my gift along with this letter, I hope you won't blow yourself up this time._

_I've been having a pretty great time here in Egypt, but I'm a little homesick since it's Christmas. I don't know when I'll be able to have a nice holiday and see you and my family, but the next time I do, you've got to come over._

_Speaking of my family, did you know my mum's been sending letter after Charlie and I asking about you? You've always been popular, yeah, but this is insane! Fred and George wrote to me about how cool you are (I don't disagree with them) and Ron wrote to me about how Percy was moping after you docked a point or two for his idiomatic translations. A bit tough, aren't you?_

_Alistair's been writing to me, too. Told me he was working on the limits of necromancy, figuring out how to draw reanimation magic from mummies. You'll have to knock some sense into him. He was so excited writing to me, all, " **BILL I HAD AN IDEA.** " Couldn't break it to him that mummies were dead. Besides, what kind of person would I be to hurt a friend's feelings? I sent him some sarcophagi and the odd hieroglyph I couldn't figure out, he'll realize it's a sham eventually._

_What have you been working on? I know you're busy teaching (aw, my Cordelia, all grown up!), but you've got to be doing something besides having your soul sucked out by a couple of teenagers, right?_

_This is the part where I realize how bloody annoying we probably were. Well, probably Al and I. You were always the nice one. (Good facade. Now you got hired!)_

_How's the teachers treating you? Any of them you're calling by name yet? How's it feel having a bit of power and not have the dungeon bat take points?_

_Write back to me or I'm throwing a curse your way!_

_Yours,_

_Bill Weasley_

_P.S. do NOT tell Alistair about my gift or he will lose his utter ~~SHIT~~ MARBLES_

Delia laughs, tears forming in her eyes at the letter. It's got the most scribbles and she see the imprint of a dry quill scratching along the edges. 

She can't believe Fred and George have written to Bill about her! Even Ron, the second youngest who she barely knows, has apparently written about her! And that they're all staying for Christmas break...

She had frowned a little at the dungeon bat comment referring to Professor Snape, but then again, Bill didn't know. 

Delia tips over the envelope and a smaller one falls out into her open hand. There's something bulging inside, oddly shaped, but it's the force of its magic that takes away her breath.

Its force is frighteningly strong, something akin to gravity that's making her want to drag her arm against the stone floor and to bury herself into the foundations of Hogwarts castle. She recognizes the magic-- it's ancient, blessed by the blood moon. This is divine magic, something familiar but difficult to recognize.

With fumbling fingers, Delia opens it. She feels the cool stasis charm break as she digs her fingertip into the envelope, pulling the shard of old magic into her hand.

It's a bone. A corrupted, decaying piece of bone. 

Delia laughs aloud, cradling it with her left thumb and forefinger. It's exactly what she's been needing to brew her draughts, to mix in a touch of death and the divine. "Oh, Bill, you absolute unit!" she says, clutching the tiny bone to her chest as she heaves with joyous laughter. 

Delia gets up from her bed with haste and she scrambles to open a door into her brewing room. It's the original room adjoined to her chambers, the one that didn't have to be enlarged. Delia didn't want to because she feared that enlargement spells would ruin the potency of her magic while creating her potions, but she figured out that it would do no harm. Well, she was too lazy to change it. Her brewing room is perfect already, why fix what isn't broken?

She looks for a small glass bottle and pops it open. She deposits the small bone inside and then seals it with a tight stasis charm and an unbreakable spell.

With a sigh, she admires the yellowed shard, crumbling into dust, throbbing with power, calling out to her. She can hear it, the bone saying make us into magic.

For a brief moment, she considers getting ready for the day. It's tempting to just start brewing, but she still has letters to read and a bath to take. But before that... Delia heads back for her room, shutting the door behind her.

She admires her baby grand piano and takes a seat. Her chambers were not large enough to accommodate even her brewing room and living quarters, but she had enlarged it and transfigured walls to create a more suitable space. Her office contains most of her simpler hobbies, including her baby grand and painting studio. Her weaving loom rests against the wall, but she hasn't touched it in ages. More for decoration. And in another room is where she experiments with new, volatile magic.

Delia doesn't play, but she practices a quick arpeggio with her left hand, the bronze fingers clacking against the ivory keys. She sighs and says, "Well, that's a charm for another day!"

She gets up from her seat and lowers the keyboard lid gently. She walks back to her office and decides to have breakfast in the Great Hall after having a nice, long bath while reading the last stack of post, probably birthday cards from old friends and letters from Mrs. Weasley, Nicole, Aunt Agnes, and, if she had remembered, Aunt Circe.

Later, after marinating in her tub, she finds a barn owl sitting on her window sill, its head cocked to the side and its black, beady eyes staring straight into her own.

"Bloody hell!" Delia gasps, stumbling back in fright. She's never been too fond of owls and while she highly respected them for being good familiars and the messengers of British wizards, there's something in their beady black eyes that don't sit with her. 

The owl hoots at her reproachfully and she sighs deeply before approaching it to untie the letter tied to its leg. "Hello, Cybele. I'm sorry, I got spooked," she greets the owl, tentatively patting its head. "Will you wait? Or shall I just read this letter?"

Cybele hoots once, something that sounds somewhat of an affirmative. Delia nods and unravels the tightly rolled envelope, opening it to read the letter. It's all written in Greek, but she doesn't have any difficulty quickly reading it.

_Didi,_

_Hello, darling! I'm in London right now, relaxing at the Waldorf Astoria. I think Cybele is mad at me because I transfigured her into a suitcase. Anyway, I shall be waiting for you. I do hope to see you later and spend some time with you, if you wouldn't mind much. Write back to me when you're going to see me so we might go shopping. I owe your mother a purse after a small bet, I'm afraid._

_Love,_

_Papa_   
_Konstantinos Adrakis_

Delia looks for a small piece of paper and a ballpen. She begins scribbling down a response in Greek.

_Dear Papa,_

_Hi! I missed you a lot! I think Cybele is a bit annoyed, she's scolded me for swearing when I saw her staring at me. Really, father? I can't believe you transfigured her... you should've just stayed at the Leaky Cauldron or something! I will see you later, maybe sometime around three pm. Let's meet at Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour, shall we? I have to go shopping too. Tell me about Mother's winning bet later, hm?_

_Love,_

_Didi_

  
She smiles at the childish nickname. Well, it was a young child's nickname-- one that she had carried on from her youth. She taps her finger below her signature and neat, printed words appear.

_Cordelia Adrakis_

She picks up the sleek, golden ribbon from her father's letter and ties it Cybele's outstretched leg. She transfigures her father's letter into a tiny mouse and tosses it into Cybele's beak. The owl chomps on it and Delia averts her gaze at the owl's pitch-black eyes.

"Thank you, Cybele," she says, attempting to pat the owl. "Now, go on and fly back to Bampas. Bye!"

Delia turns away from her window and heads to her wardrobe. It's freezing outside, but she doesn't quite mind the cold. She pulls out a grey turtleneck, a pair of black wool trousers, a long trench coat with an apparent lack of buttons, her trusty, charmed leather boots, and a juniper green scarf.

She gets dressed, tucking the turtleneck into her pants and tossing the coat over her back. It's around eleven am, not very early, but a bit too early to see her father. Brunch at the Great Hall sounds splendid, and then she'll be informing Professor Dumbledor of her departure later and her absence tomorrow, and then she'll see Tonks for some tea, and then she'll run to Hogsmeade for a quick look around, then she'll fly to London on her broom.

Why, it's been ages since she's last flown, it'll be a lovely experience once more! She really should've asked Madame Hooch if she could referee a match or two... Perhaps next year will do the trick!

Delia places her scarf over her shoulders and picks up her messenger bag. Her shrunken broom Nimbus 2000 is resting inside her bag, finally ready for use. Her tardis-esque coin purse is inside and filled with perhaps one-fifty to two hundred galleons worth of wizarding money, but her wallet is empty. She needs to withdraw once she gets to London. She highly doubts her father will limit himself to Diagon Alley when there's Oxford Street, The King's Road, and Covent Garden. In addition to that, Delia's been looking up a rather old antique bookshop in Soho with, as she hears from its disgruntled would-be customers, excellent first edition copies of some books she's simply been longing to read. She wouldn't be able to buy it, unfortunately, which is the exact reason why there are no actual customers and only would-bes, and exactly the reason why they're all so disgruntled.

Delia slings her bag over her shoulder and she exits the room. Once she's in her office, she locks the door and says, "Colloportus." It doesn't need the charm, really, but it is a good precaution just in case. She seals the rest of her doors and creates a nearly impenetrable barrier on her brewing room. Another precaution, but this one is necessary. With a look of satisfaction, Delia exits her office and hurries down the several flights of stairs down to the Great Hall.

Her brunch was quite nice with a perfectly stuffed loaf of bread, filled up with eggs and bacon and chicken and spice. Delia indulges in some sweet, caramel coffee, forgoing her usual mug of chamomile tea. 

Delia finishes her food and approaches Professor Dumbledore from behind.

"Professor, if I may have a word?"

"Oh, certainly, Cordelia," Dumbledore replies, turning over his shoulder to look at her, then, he gets up. "What is it?"

"I need to leave for London later and I will be absent tomorrow and perhaps, for the better half of the day after," she says, informs him. "That is, if you don't mind."

"Ah, of course, you may go!"

"Thank you, Professor. Would you like anything from Diagon Alley? Or muggle London? I wouldn't mind if I first paid out of my pocket."

"Well, I could do with a lovely pair of socks," Dumbledore says, his pale blue eyes twinkling.

Delia laughs and says, "Of course, Professor. It's always the socks, isn't it?"

"Indeed," Dumbledore affirms, and he returns to the table. 

Delia moves towards Aurora and says, "Happy New Year, Aurora. I'm leaving for London later. Would you like anything? I'll pay out of pocket first, I don't mind."

Aurora turns to look at Delia over her shoulder. "Happy New Year, Cordelia. Anything from London?" She ponders the question. "Well, perhaps you could get me one of those lovely skinny little quills of yours. The kind that doesn't need dipping?"

Delia laughs. "Oh, Aurora, I could buy you a boatload. What color?"

"Will it be more expensive if it's colored ink?"

"Heavens, no. I'll buy the whole rainbow if you want it."

"Then, I'll have the whole rainbow. Have fun in London!"

"I will, good-bye, Aurora," Delia says, and she goes down the steps towards the students' tables. She can see Harry Potter and Ron Weasley chatting over a game of chess. As far as Delia knows, Tonks is staying over the duration of the break. And she can see her bright pink hair as she sits at the Hufflepuff table, surrounded by a pair of fiery-haired boys.

Delia approaches them. "Hello, Fred, George. Have you done the homework I assigned you?" she asks smoothly, smirking at Tonks.

"You didn't assign any, Professor!" Fred reminds her. 

"Didn't I? Shall I give you some now?" She says in a mock-ponderous voice. She sees them make a face.

"Uncool, Professor!" the twins say in unison, and she and Tonks laugh. "We were just asking Tonks for a bit of help. We're planning an interesting prank," George explains.

"Yeah, but we can't tell you," Fred cuts in fluidly.

"Yes, I know. Now, you best be going. I need to speak to Tonks."

"Alright, Professor. Good-bye, Nymphadora!" they say in unison once more, and they bound off towards the Gryffindor table. They laugh when they hear Tonks holler, "Don't call me Nymphadora!"

"Hi, Tonks. Care for some tea?"

Tonks grins. "Wotcher, Professor. I wouldn't mind at all. We're alone down this table, how about here?"

"Don't call me that, Nymphadora. You and I both know it's a bit of a farce," she says, grinning as she takes a seat. "How have you been? Alistair's written to me about you."

"I'm doing just fine, thank you. Alistair's written to me way back, too, asking me what I wanted to take after Hogwarts and then begging me to become an Auror once I told him I was considering it," Tonks says, rolling her eyes. "I think he just wants Ministry connections."

"He does," Delia laughs. "But I do think you'd be a good Auror. It'll be difficult, though," she warns.

"I know, Professor Sprout told me! But I still think I'd do well. I am getting good marks, you know."

"Still getting caught after hours by Min- McGonagall?"

"Yes," she says, sounding both amused and resigned. "I don't know how she does it. Do you reckon she's got some kind of see-through glasses?"

"No, I think she's just used to your antics."

"Well! At least she doesn't have you contend with!"

Delia narrows her eyes at Tonks. "What's that supposed to mean?" she asks slowly, eyeing the broad grin on Tonks' face. 

"It means you were nearly as strict as her! God, I love McGonagall, she's a great teacher, but let me tell you, she means business!"

Delia huffs out a low laugh. "I'm pleased to know you think of me the same way," she says, a sardonic edge to her voice. She looks at her watch, and, with a shock, she sees the time. "Heavens, it's half-past twelve! I've got to get going, Tonks. I'm taking a detour to Hogsmeade and then taking my Nimbus 2000 on a spin to London. Do you want anything from there?"

"I forgot you love your broom enough to fly in the middle of winter," Tonks snorts. "But, say, could you get me some sweets? And if you pass by Flourish and Blotts, could you possibly get me a book on Aurors? Or something of the sort? I'll pay you back, don't worry."

"Absolutely, no problem," Delia says, getting up. She snatches up a sugar cookie and bites into it as she waves. "See you soon, Nymphadora!"

She hears Tonks say, "Don't call me Nymphadora!" but it's already faint when it comes. Delia hurries down the corridor towards the entrance and feels the icy chill hang in the air. She wraps her scarf around her neck and shoves her gloveless hand in her coat pockets as she steps out into the dazzlingly white grounds, the snow sparkling like diamonds under the hot, midday sun. She jogs down the path to Hogsmeade, fresh snow crunching under her boots.

She considers visiting Zonko's, but she needs to go to Honeyduke's first to buy some sweets for her father. She can buy Tonks some when she gets back. Oh, she should've brought with her some of gigglewater! It's a shame-- it would've been highly amusing if she spiked her father's drink with a drop or two. _Perhaps the Three Broomsticks has some?_ Delia hurries with her quick shopping. It takes her nearly thirty minutes to finish up, and unfortunately, with a distinct lack of giggle-inducing alcohol.

"Oh, will I ever make it in time on my broom?" she moans, hurriedly shrinking and stuffing her newly bought items in her bag. She looks at her broom determinedly. "I could still make in time. I really want to fly, so I'll do it until I'm sick of it but preferably before three... then, I'll apparate." She scowls at the thought of apparating. It's a hideous form of travel, but it is the closest we've got to teleportation, she thinks, pulling out her Nimbus 2000 and returning it to its original size. She heads for a less visible alley and sits on her broom. Before she takes off, she casts a warming spell and a sort of helmet charm. She takes off and flies for the first time in nearly six months and whoops with laughter.

It's exhilarating and she's flooded with memories of her time as one of the Ravenclaw Beaters. She doesn't look like the type-- more unassuming and slight, she looks like she'd be better off catching darting gold than batting bludgers. But she had been one of the best, winning round after round until Slytherin screwed them over with unseen fouls but arguably good snitches. Delia's talent in whacking things with bats had been undeniable, but very unusual. For one, she wasn't as aggressive as the other Beaters. She played her way by diving for bludgers and taking wild ninety-degree swerves to propel the heavy ball towards the opponent Keepers or Chaser. 

Delia had played baseball before at insistence of her American cousins and she had been their ragtag team's star batter. She had also been the Ravenclaws' star Beater, but though it was a possible career choice, she dropped Quidditch in her last year to keep up with her nine NEWT subjects and with her responsibilities as Head Girl. As an OWL-level Prefect, Quidditch had been feasible with some juggling and late nights. But she still had her responsibilities and she had to sort her priorities at the insistence of Professors Flitwick and McGonagall.

Delia touches down on top of a lonely hill. She's tired and apparating seems to be the best option. She doesn't like apparating-- she splinched during her apparation lessons and it was a hideous experience. Apparating becomes riskier the farther it is, and given how she's plain average at it with an average chance of splinching or getting lost, she's never been fond of that method of travel. London is still very, very far away. She plans out a map in her head of the cities she could apparate to-- ones she's been to before.

Ayr, Carlisle, York, Lincoln, Leicester, Coventry... London!

Delia gets on with apparating and she arrives in London quickly, taking only about twenty-minutes of her time. Well! It was twenty, stomach-churning minutes. _Bloody hell, why didn't I just take the blasted floo?_ Delia groans as she leans against the alley leading to the back of Madame Malkin's, trying to get feeling back into her body. She feels like she's having a migraine-- just everywhere. That's what she gets for not thinking ahead, then. 

With a shudder, she pushes herself over the roughly-hewn bricks and she traipses off towards the main street. It's not as crowded as she expected, but then again, it is the first day of the new year. Many of the smaller shops appear to be closed, but since it's nearly three pm, the more popular shops are up and running. Aimes Apothecary is open-- _I should get some potions ingredients, I think asking Professor Snape for some would be a no-go._ She's not in need of any basic ingredients because she finds no need to brew anything she can get from the Hospital Wing, but she needs to draw out the scent of death from the bone Bill had sent her. She doesn't know the exact recipe of instructions for making that draught as her Aunt Circe had never told her and she was too shy to ask, but she does know that death magic needs a good conduit or it'll fade in the mortal world.

She pushes the shop door open, the pinging bell alerting Potions Master Aimes of her presence. 

"Hello, hello, what might I get you?" he asks, his feeble voice carrying through the small shop. He squints at her and says, "You seem familiar."

"I am. It's Cordelia Adrakis, Master Aimes. I need a conduit, something good for necromancy," Delia says, rocking on her heels as she peers over his shoulder. The stockroom's door is open and she can see a good view of his rows upon rows of bottled ingredients. She notes the look of incredulity on his face and cuts him off with a laugh. "No, I am not raising an army of Inferi! I need to draw out the scent of death from a bone. I'm making a protection draught-- a foreign one, actually, but the recipe's been lost for around six or eight thousand years. I'm going to remake it."

"That's extremely difficult potions making," he mutters, his enlarged, bespectacled eyes flickering from her face to the door. "You'll need a master to help you, I suggest. A conduit? I have oils, juices, and various types of water. If you're foo-- clever enough to attempt making an ancient potion with no recipe, then you ought to know what'll work."

Delia sighs. She can get enchanted water herself, but oils and juices? Nope. "Alright, I'll consult my non-Potions Master... colleague," she says pausing to turn back to the doorway. The bell had chimed while she was speaking and she could feel another person's presence behind her. But when she did see his face, she was quite shocked. "Oh, Professor Snape! It's a bit of a--" she breaks off, noting his raised brow. "--not surprise. I would ask what you're doing here, but that's quite stupid."

"You two know each other?" Master Aimes asks, sounding a bit surprised. 

"Yes!"

"No."

Delia turns her head to frown at him. He almost imperceptibly shrugs back. "He doesn't like me because he's biased. Classic Slytherins, if I do say so myself," she announces, smiling. "Anyway, I best be going. I'll see you soon, Master Aimes. Have a nice day, Professor."

Delia exits the shop and feels a sort of smile come onto her face. She checks her watch. It's two-fifteen. Delia passes the time strolling around Diagon Alley, snacking on fairy-floss but refraining from buying ice-cream until she's with her father. She goes to Gringotts' to withdraw from her vault and she had exchanged her wizard coins to pounds sterling. She wanders into Flourish and Blott's to frown at some of the hideous novels and novellas written by witches and wizards. 

Year With The Yeti by Gilderoy Lockhart pops out at her in a horridly bright shade of turquoise. She scowls at the name. Gilderoy Lockhart is around three or four years older than her and he had been in her house at Hogwarts. She didn't like him much and Alistair and Bill had considered her too clever to breathe the same air as him, but she recalls waking up one morning with a hangover and half of her female friends fuming mad. It also had something to do with the fact that Lockhart had a nice stay at the Hospital Wing and Alistair and Bill with bloody knuckles and a night of detention. A rather strange and icky incident, she must admit.

"Really, if I must be honest, muggles do these sorts of things better eleven times over ten," she says loudly as she peruses through the disappointing selection. She frowns at Gilderoy Lockhart's other books. She's not alone in the aisle-- a witch had frowned at her and muttered under her breath, "Bloody muggle-lover."

Delia walks out of Flourish and Blott's not a minute later. She stands outside Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour, looking around for her father when a flash of black appears from the corner of her eye. It's Professor Snape, exiting Flourish and Blott's. "I can't believe it-- was he there too? I thought I would've noticed that outfit of his..." she mutters under her breath. "Good afternoon, stranger," Delia greets, stepping forward to wave at him.

He sneers at her. "Hilarious, Adrakis," he says, sounding quite unpleasant and not at all like he had the night before. He's stopped, though, much to her amusement.

Her eyes widen at the implication and she shakes the thought away. "Thank you, people do say I'm a bit of a funny girl, really. I didn't see you in Flourish and Blott's. Well, then again, I didn't think you'd be lurking in the novella section. Did you see that new book on potion-making?"

He scowls at her, but he's standing quite close now. Near enough to seem more like they actually know each other, she notes. She eyes the long glances from passing strangers. "I did. I went to buy it."

Now, Delia's shocked. She didn't think he would actually buy it! "Why?" she blurts out, looking at him askance. She frowns at the sudden flash of irritation across his face, but she continues before he has a chance to speak. "It's all codswallop, isn't it? Quite like annual almanacs, If I do say so myself. There's a reason why you can't flick through it, you know."

He doesn't reply for several seconds. He only stares at her in something akin to incredulous and intense annoyance. But when he opens his mouth to speak, he's interrupted by a voice ahead of him and behind her.

"Cordelia! Who's this?" She quickly turns to see her father, Tino, striding towards her. Much to her surprise, she finds that her father and Professor Snape are almost eye-to-eye, her father being shorter by less than an inch. It's really quite strange to see two people who, in her mind, had existed in separate realms to meet in an uncomfortable situation.

"Father," she says curtly, stepping on his foot as her father stares at Severus Snape with, much to her horror, curiosity. "My colleague and former professor at Hogwarts, the Potions-Master Severus Snape."

Her father extends his hand and, to her relief, Professor Snape takes it. "Now, Father, Professor Snape and I were just chatting about the lovely new book on potions-making. But he is quite busy, and so are we. Have a nice day, Professor Snape," she says, her tone moderate and controlled. She rests her foot lightly on top of her father's and she narrows her eyes at Professor Snape, a somewhat threatening look crossing on her face when he had scowled at her description of the book she had just called codswallop.

"Likewise, Professor and Mister Adrakis," he replies coolly, inclining his head at the two of them. With a swish of his black robes, he strides away in the opposite direction.

Delia and Tino are silent for a moment, and then he turns to look at her with a very curious expression.

" _O ... synádelfós sas eínai endiaféron. O Bill Weasley den ton kálese kápote to liparó rópalo bountroúmi?_ " Tino asks, tilting his head at her. [Your... colleague is interesting. Didn't Bill Weasley once call him the greasy dungeon bat?]

" _Min eísai agenís! Eínai ... kalá, den eínai akrivós kalós ... kalá, eínai arketá éfkolo na ta kataféreis. Kai den eínai liparós, oúte nychterída. Telos panton..._ " she pauses to roll her eyes at her father. She had smacked his arm and he had looked scandalized at that. "Let's get ice cream. I've been waiting since two-fifteen for some. [Don't be rude! He's a... well, he isn't exactly nice... well, he's fairly easy to get along with. And he's not greasy, nor a bat. Anyway...]

The two of them enter the ice-cream parlour, drawing the attention of several people. She huffs at that and says, "Sort of why it's easier to go out with Mother, I tell you." But her father is only smiling in the most serendipitous manner, as if nothing in the world could touch him. 

She and her father share striking features-- her nose, the shape of her face, the shade of her eyes, and the stature. It does irk her at times that she didn't get the luck of inheriting her mother's small, upturned nose and she had instead gotten her father's sharp, aquiline but masculine nose. She's not as tall as her father but they carry themselves the same way-- Delia likes to think she stands in a regal manner at best, but stiffly at worst. Still masculine, though. And even the cut of her jaw and cheeks are sharp-- but with her mother's large, round eyes and disarming smile, she is fortunate it comes together like a completed puzzle.

Her father turns his gaze towards her and she brings herself back from her thoughts.

"Do you need to go shopping here for long? I was thinking of taking a trip to The King's Road. Let's have our annual 'daddy-daughter' bonding day outside of wizarding London, hm?"

Shaking her head, she grins and replies, "You're a bit over the top today, aren't you, Bampas? I don't mind-- I want to go to Soho and visit a rather interesting bookshop." She steps to the side to look at the rest of the line-- it's slow, but moving. They're still closer to the exit than the cash register, though. She looks back into her father's eyes-- they aren't lambent like hers, but they're more on the shade of brilliant amber than liquid gold. "Anyway, how is everybody? And, do tell me about your bet with Mother."

"I'll tell you about that when you see what kind of purse I owe her," Tino says, scoffing lightly. "But I do have some news. Uh, your Theía Maria is pregnant, your cousin Eline is engaged, and Michalis' children are going to study here. In Britain. At Hogwarts." He counts on his fingers, muttering under his breath. He looks satisfied at what he's given her and doesn't continue, but Delia presses.

"That's it? Really? I thought we were a giant clan? And do you mean Sophia and Alexander? Theíos Michalis' twins?" she says, sounding both disbelieving and demanding. "Of course, that's all quite big news, but I expected there to be more! And what do you mean Sophia and Alexander are coming to study at Hogwarts? It'll be strange having my cousins as my students, you know."

"Di-- Delia," Tino starts, lifting his hands appeasingly. "My brother-- your uncle, mind you, want them to learn proper good English. Not that we don't have good English lessons back home, but he's always been a little jealous of how clever you are at it," he pauses, grinning wryly, "They lived with Theía Circe, just as you did. I hear Sophia-- or was it Alexander? Well, one of them has a knack for modern healing and the other has a good hand with offensive magic. Most of us think they'll be better off around you even if they did disapprove of you studying at Hogwarts."

"That's... well, that will be a new experience," she says, smirking. "But I won't mind having them around. Are they coming over the summer? It's been a while since I last saw them. Have they changed much?"

"No, they're still enviously well-behaved. They're very quiet but, as your uncle says, if you talk to either of them about fancy obscure spells and techniques, they won't stop talking. Theía Circe says they look like her half-sisters, the ones from Thrinakía. Well, if I've got to be honest, Michalis is the one that got the good looks, not me," he says, shrugging.

"Well, what does that say about me?" she asks, narrowing her eyes. 

Before Tino can answer, a voice cuts in. 

"Good afternoon, what can I get you, Cordelia and company?" Florean Fortescue asks from behind the counter, greeting Cordelia with a nod and smile. The line had moved and the two of them are now in front and about to be served. "We've got holiday specials like Bourbon Eggnog, Sweet Cream Christmas, Peppermint Crunch, Gingerbread, et cetera."

"I'll get Bourbon Eggnog and Dark Chocolate in a cone," her father says, peering through the foggy glass to look at ice cream flavours. "And, you, Didi?"

She purses her lips. "I'll get Sweet Cream Christmas, Gingerbread, and Vanilla in a cup. How much will that be, Florean?"

"That'll be twelve sickles and nine knuts. I'll get your ice cream," Florean says, ringing up the register then waving his wand. Two ice cream scoops move and scoop u ice cream, moving almost worryingly fast and very close to the glass. Florean picks up the cone and cup and hands it to them. Tino takes it while Delia pulls out her purse and counts some change. 

"Here you are, Florean."

"Thank you, have a happy holiday!" Florean nods, counting his money. 

Delia takes her cup of ice cream from her father and they walk out of the shop into the bustling main street of Diagon Alley.

"So, where will we be heading, Delia?"

"Into muggle London, I suppose?" she suggests, a wide grin on her face. "Shall we take a stroll down Coventry Street?"

Her father smiles and says, "Then, let's not waste the rest of the day, shall we?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Greek translations are all from google translate. This chapter's a bit shorter, but it is just day one of three hundred and fifty-six. Leave a comment if you liked it!


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